Book Review: Capitals by Abhay K

Review by Vatsala Radhakeesoon

Capitals (Poetry anthology)

Author: Abhay K
Year of publication:2016
ISBN 978-93-86141-11-8
Paperback, Pages: 395
Price (Kindle): $ 9.99

Abhay K

Capitals  is a poetry anthology edited by the diplomat and poet, Abhay K. It is divided into four sections as per the continents: Africa, Americas, Asia-Pacific and Europe. Each section consists of captivating poems about the capital cities of various countries situated in each respective continent. This anthology is the product of the tremendous contribution of eminent global poets’ works.  The poems in this anthology precisely point out the hindrances/problems and achievements/progress at the social, economic, political and human mentality/psychological levels in each continent through the capital cities.

Suffering /pain, fallen cities, corruption and the saddening effect left by colonization predominate in the Africa continent. These traits are respectively revealed by the lines from the following poems:

1.Poems for Abuja by Jumoke Verissimo (page 3-4):

IV

Barren land with blooming flowers
Is this how you will continue
To
Take from others


2.The City by the Atlantic by Mariama Khan (page 16) :

now the city of saints has a monster soul

3. Gaborone by Abhay K (page 39):

While the culprits flee to jungles of Mokolodi
in wagons, sledges and bakkies

The three Dikgosi close their eyes

4. What is Left of Africa by Jekwu Ozoemene (page 57-58):

Whose son are you?
Before I could muster an appropriate response
He mockingly slips away

Despite all the above difficulties the bright side of Africa ,its beauty  and the sense of patriotism of Africans  are revealed by the lines of the poem,
Buyenzi, Bujumbura by the poet  Abdoul Mtoka  (page 21-22) :

Buyenzi has beauty
Although people do not see it
It has a classic personality
I carry it in my heart

Thus, the poems about African capital cities project Africa continent as one that is plagued by scarcity of basic resources, degrading morality, dishonest practices and identity crisis brought by pre-independence scars. However, even if life in Africa is full of hardships, many Africans still have a strong sentimental attachment to their native lands.

North America and South America continents are characterized by hope, liberty eradication of evils, building of new cities and memories of struggles and lost civilizations. These are highlighted by lines  of the following poems:

1. Marcus Garves stood on Basseterre Bay Road by  Imruh bakari (page 91-93):

He stood to speak
of hope

He stood to speak
of self-expression and liberty

He spoke
of the ungodliness
that is inequality

2. Belmopan by Abhay K ((page 94):

the new city square built with grey stones
its broad steps, a reminiscence
a nostalgia of the Maya civilization

Self-progress, growth at an individualistic level, recognition of human efforts and the positive aspect of American culture are nicely revealed through the poem, On Ottawa by Scott Alan (page 138):

because in our city
everybody arrives as immigrant
but becomes a component
of its flourishing character

Therefore, the poems about the capitals of American countries highlight that human rights, freedom, innovation, remembrance of Native Americans, emotional independence and individual human efforts are highly valued in America continent.

Family ties, injustice, beauty in softness of natural landscapes, and urbanization are striking features of Asia-Pacific continents. These are respectively indicated through the lines of the following poems about the capital cities:

1. Abhu Zhabi by Navid Haider (page 165):

If only my father could once again see,
the tallest towers of Abu Dhabi
If only now my father could see
the breathing scars of Abu Dhabi

2. Bhaghdad Lapidated by Salah A. Hamdani (page 171):
I
Betrayed city
unfasten our childhood from the terraces of Al Rachid

II
Violated city
you have nothing but the names of your walls

3. Canberra by P.S Cotier (page 184):

raucous cockatoos , who know little
of decorum, and parrots courtesans
of the sky. Are you a city, Canberra,
or a garden?

4. Delhi by Abhay K (page 225-226):

I am a city of cities
A city of invaders, conqueror,
merchants, immigrants – 

Hence, poems about Asian -Pacific capital cities show that various regions of these continents have suffered due to destruction and loss caused by invaders or conquerors in the past. However the humane ways, collective thinking and care as well as the exotic and mystic beauty of Asia-Pacific have been preserved up till now.

The individualistic approach, existentialism, loneliness, materialism and awareness of illusive side of religion are some important aspects of Europe continent.  This is clearly revealed by the lines of the poems:

1. The Dockhand by Joris Lenta (page 255):

Everybody loves him because he’s willing to shoulder anything
without ever complaining

2. Monaco by Abhilash Surendan (page 302):

amidst so much of affluence
I felt lonely
like a fly on the wall glued to money

3. Vatican City Vision by Pat Boran (page 334):

and with this palace for the millions at the heart of which
in his chains of faith the solitary prisoner endures.


The stability, peace and beauty of Europe are beautifully described through the lines of the poem Andora: The Voice of the Mountain by Ester Fenoll Garcia
(page 256):

I tirelessly stroll
through wild woods
that fill my life with peace.

Thus, the poems about the main European cities depict Europe as being individual human being oriented, practical, human beings feeling isolated in hectic
fast- moving societies with the existence and presence of God often being questionable and spirituality being overshadowed by the value for wealth.
The careful planning of the cities contributes to the beauty of Europe.

The language used by the poets in this anthology produced by Abhay K varies from simple to complex, and direct to metaphorical. The writing style of the poems is spontaneous free verse. Words flow beautifully to show the readers glimpses of reality of various regions of the world. The tones in the poems vary from those of grounded realists to those of the wise visionaries. The moods of the poems whether serious, sorrowful, cheerful or nostalgic are like eye-openers for the readers.  Capitals can be considered as a masterpiece of the literary world as well as the world of tourism.  This valuable gem of knowledge will undoubtedly continue to enchant poetry lovers and travellers from generation to generation all around the globe.

Setu, September 2017

My World and Words

Shaken Not Stirred by Ken Allan Dronsfield

Ken Allan Dronsfield

Words, words, words! Without them we are taken back in time to sitting around a fire in front of the cave grunting through gnawing on a bone. My journey began at around thirteen years old when I started playing the guitar and decided to write my own lyrics to music. I wrote for some years, but then life took the front seat and my poetry and lyric career sat in the car seat for some years.

Through my military career, I played the guitar but found the lack of time for writing was frustrating. After children, bad jobs, a divorce I decided to drive commercial trucks all over the US and Canada. It was an experience to remember. Seeing this country, the people, places and things, fed my imagination and after retiring well over ten years ago, I decided to write poetry once again.

Some of my inspirational poets and writers have been Shakespeare, William Butler Yeats, Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Frost and in recent times, Leonard Cohen and, of course, "the Bukowski". I write poetry in a "minimalist" style....in other words, I keep it short. I rarely complete a poem of more than 24 lines, most are kept to 12 to 20 lines. For some reason, it is ingrained in my mind to get the message out in as few words as possible.

Most of my work touches on Nature... but I also enjoy writing inspirational quotes, some light horror, visionary and pieces I'll just call "out there". One of my visionary pieces would be:

Shaken Not Stirred

In an evening transcending;
a lonely heart not adjusting
as the rabbits play at chasing
shadows in flat mottled grass.

Warbling of self-righteousness,
fragile screaming in mourning
echoing within a mirrored eye,
the abominable crispy breath.

Flame to the wick ignited but
the candle dreams of darkness
entombed within subtle empathy
grasping Faeries adrift so high.

Pastel orbs traversing souls,
a percolated sadness avowed,
my mutation reeks of intensity
of a journey shaken not stirred.

I have, most recently, begun going through some of my poems and reformatting them into Formal Sonnet's, Pantoum, and Villanelle poetry forms. Most of my work would be considered traditional in style, some rhyming, but mostly of a free multi-line verse. My poetry has been translated into French, Spanish, Albanian and Farsi. I will admit, Nature is where my heart truly resides as in this poem that I originally wrote for spring and rewrote for the autumn solstice.

With Charcoal Black

i
Today I'll travel to the swamp and wood
to do a little autumn sketching for my
painting projects during the cold winter.
As I pack my thermos and bag, I see
snail trails leaving the autumn garden.

ii
Cooler breezes beget browner grasses;
lichen and moss cover the old stone wall,
I swear a little chipmunk ran by just now.
Crows are busy in their murder covens.
The songbirds leave daily for warm skies.

iii
Smells of the forest still musty and damp
colored leaves fall, a winter’s quilt woven
Ice sheets now form in the ponds as geese
happily swim throughout coolish waters.
Frogs and turtles hibernate until spring.

iv
A puff on the pipe, and a sip from the flask,
take out my sketch pad from the canvas bag.
Deer moving through the hemlock swamp.
It's time to capture, using a charcoal black,
the precious moments on this autumn day.

Here is an example of a Sonnet, 14 lines, 10 syllables per line.

Earth Cries... Heaven Smiles

The white rose petals are gently falling

floating slowly down to the bare cold ground

purple lilac's open; inhale the sun

lovely essence of both waft all about.

Red ladybugs are dancing leaf to leaf

the dragonflies sit alert on a post

red robins dodging colored leaves on lawns

my old cat naps in warm sunlit windows.

Grandfathers snooze; reflect life in old chairs

our Savior kisses a cool wrinkled cheek

the children run while playing in the yard

welcome back home to the autumn solstice

whereas the earth now cries; the heaven smiles

our summer now ends, but our fall begins.

Since beginning my quest to seek official publishing of my work less than two years ago, I have been blessed to having 800 poems published as well as several flash fiction pieces. My work was nominated for "the Best of the Net and I have two nominations for "the Pushcart Award" for 2016. I've written one book, "The Cellaring" a collection of 80 poems touching on the haunted, horror, paranormal, weird and wonderfully odd. It is available through my publisher, Creative Talents Unleashed or through Amazon.com. The book is also registered with the Library of Congress. I've worked as a Co-Editor for two Poetry Anthologies, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" and "Dandelion in a Vase of Roses" both also available through Amazon. I'm working on two new books and am currently seeking publishers.

I write because I feel the need. I will not, nor to I seek riches or world-wide acclaim. I do it as a legacy for my children and grand-children. I feel wealth or property is simply material things, my poetry 'lives' and always will, long after I'm gone.

Setu, September 2017

Poetry and Pictures

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Blooding the Boy

blooded face

fresh from the hunt

you are a man now

like those statues

in the town square

the fox smeared across

your face

was not wily enough

you are a man now

and his virility is

yours

do not tell your mother

that the shot came from

a seasoned gun

for you are a man now

and lying is every bit

the tradition

death

is.

I thought of the Gorgon

She had two other sisters

that lived in different cities

and I thought of the Gorgon,

of commute times and unresolved

issues over who mommy liked best,

and once on the street, strolling the avenues
again,

I looked at the buildings

and realized everything had turned

to stone.

Xebec

Set sail for Christ Church –

who cares which one,

brave the storms the same way

you endure the inner ones,

batten down the hatches

throw on a wildly ill-equipped

slicker, practice for mutiny but always

alone, follow the rats away from water,

theirs is a survivalism of traps, a stubborn

continuance of numbers old as dirt

and then some;

they will save you in a way a distress

signal will not.

Set sail for Barnacle Bay –

haemorrhoids of the sea.

When you get there

sit in harbour for three

years shooting cannon balls

at the moon.

If your aim is off you will know it.

The moon will still be there,

and the weight of anchors

too.

Fanny Packs

of wolves

devouring the waistline

back to patient

zero

a single

leather strap

to hold the universe

together

so we can sleep awhile

longer

my arm over her middle

the curtains pulled over

and tombstone

heavy

and every bit

as dark.

The Caber Tossers

got into a tight circle

to discuss

how the competition

should go

                       

in kilts

with the eldest one

running the caber

back up for each new attempt

after each throw

as some highlander

with a weight belt

stood behind the contestants

to make sure nothing

fell back onto the crowd

of onlookers

snapping pictures

on their camera phones

behind a rope

for one weekend

in Fergus

each

August.

Buk was Right

about Fante

and his prose

read Ask the Dust

The Wine of Youth

outside of Kafka

he is the best

there is an argument to be made

for Hemingway, of course,

a strong one of personal taste

that I would not refute

or Joyce

or the Russians

or D.H. Lawrence

in love with all his

women

but what I like about Fante

is that he seems to be writing

about himself and for himself

at all times

showing you the battle scars

and never just the

battle.

Progress Reports Are Optional

Bring your own Botswana

bring lollygags and serendipity

I have no more outs so you may want

to get some of them

I do have insecurities, that much is covered,

slabs of stone you can carry over broken hilltops…

I have a woman who styles her hair like spaghetti,

you can bring your woman if you have one

bring moats nestling rolled crocodiles into green sleep

bring clothing so that nudity can feel ashamed of itself

progress reports are optional, there is no progress

anyways              

leave Guam in the Southern hemisphere,

no one likes anything that sounds like bat shit –

bring conventional weapons if you must

rustle cattle away from the farmers and park them

in the neighbour’s driveway

bring ceramic skulls in the likeness of bog death;

so real you touch your forehead with your hand

and gasp.

Setu, September 2017

An Interview With Heath Brougher

by Scott Thomas Outlar

Heath Brougher

Heath Brougher lives in York, PA and attended Temple University. He is the co-poetry editor of Into the Void Magazine which won the 2017 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. Heath has also received a Best of the Net Nomination as well as edited the anthology Luminous Echoes, the proceeds of which will be donated to Pieta House in Ireland which is an organization that helps prevent suicide/self-harm. Heath has published 4 books: A Curmudgeon is Born, Digging for Fire, Your Noisy Eyes, and About Consciousness. Although he has been writing his entire life, he didn't begin to submit his work for publication until three years ago at the age of thirty-four. Since then his work has appeared in over 450 different journals in 25 countries Heath has also read his work internationally and been a Featured Reader in many U.S. cities. When not writing he helps with the charity Paws Soup Kitchen which gives out free dog/cat food to low income families with pets.

Scott Thomas Outlar: Your latest book, About Consciousness, was recently published by Alien Buddha Press. Can you tell us what inspired this collection?

Heath Brougher: I have spoken about Consciousness in my three previous books, so a collection such as this was kind of inevitable. Also, since my other books had titles that were a bit vague, I thought I'd just be really blunt and title this one "About Consciousness." I also just liked the ring of that title. It's inspired by what most of my writing is inspired by: a philosophical interest in the world/Universe/Multiverse and especially the other possible stages of Sentience which could simultaneously exist in our current state of Consciousness, as well as an eternal curiosity of what the next stage of Sentience could possibly be.

STO: What other books of yours are currently available?

HB: My debut chapbook A Curmudgeon is Born was published in June of 2016 by Yellow Chair Press, my second and third books, Digging for Fire and Your Noisy Eyes were both published by Stay Weird and Keep Writing Press, and  my fourth book, About Consciousness was published by Alien Buddha Press

STO: Much of your work focuses on the individual’s search for truth in this world. Has this intense pursuit always played a pivotal role in your life?

HB: I think so. I've always kind of been the quiet outsider and since I had no herd to follow I was allowed to explore my own Individuality much more than most people, whom are usually enveloped by what I call "the Mainstream Thought" and end up living out their lives as mindless robotic slaves to these insane Manmade Realities which pollute our societies. So, in that sense, I think I'm much more "Individualized" than most people. This, of course, also means that I am much more misunderstood by most people.

STO: Why do you write poetry? Has your perception of the art changed any since you began publishing?

HB: I've always written. I've got the twenty years-worth of notebooks to prove it. My perception of it has, of course, changed as I've gotten older, though there has been a seismic shift in the way I view poetry since I began publishing. Now that I've seen the rampant corruption and cronyism of the lit world I feel like I need to level the playing field as best I can to make sure the voices that should be getting heard are getting a fair chance. I still hang onto the belief that I must never allow myself to become pigeonholed. I don't necessarily believe in "finding my voice" like most poets say you have to do. I care much more about finding the Truth and then projecting that out into the world in whatever particular style or way of writing it happens to come out of me through.

STO: You don’t only publish, but are also quite active in performing at live events. What have been some of your more memorable readings so far?

HB: Well, I began doing readings after my first chapbook was published in order to help the press with sales and found a local scene in York and surrounding areas where I met some amazing people like Carla Christopher and Nancy Yeager. I've done a couple readings in England and several other U.S. cities. I did one recently for Josh Dale's Forty West Publishing that was special because I was able to finally meet him and, of course, YOU. Lol. I recently saw Heller Levinson read in NYC which was a Truly mind-blowing experience, and I, personally, didn't read a single word at all during that reading. If people haven't read the works of Heller Levinson, Felino Soriano, Alan Britt, Duane Locke, or Matt Duggan, then they better buck up and get to it because the stuff these poets are currently writing is the work that will ultimately be remembered by history and today's children will be reading in college.

STO: Into the Void won best magazine in the 2017 Saboteur Awards. What is your role at this venue, and where do you see the magazine heading in the future?

HB: I am the co-poetry editor at Into the Void and so very proud to be one of the four editors of this amazing magazine put together by the brilliant Phillip Elliott, who is only 24 years old and I believe to be one of the brightest burning up-and-coming stars in the lit world. The fact that we won this award after only four issues is a testament to reading blind. That's something I feel very strongly about and I believe all magazines should be doing. Instead, you have your usual cronyism and corruption running amok in the lit world. I think Into the Void has the potential to become as important of a magazine as it wants. We've been listed in Poets & Writers Magazine as one of the "nine new journals of 2016 which you MUST read" so I think the sky is the limit with Into the Void Magazine and I can't wait to see how far we take it.

STO: Do you have any other projects at the moment that you’re particularly excited about?

HB: As I usually say, I was 20 years late to the party since I didn't begin submitting my life's work for publication until I was thirty-four years old (three years ago). I've already written 60 books (and counting since I keep finding new ones in the 20 years-worth of duffel bags filled with notebooks) that all just need typed up and edited, not to mention the uncountable number of notebooks filled with writing. What I'm most excited about, though, is that I recently submitted my first book of what I call Spiralism to a certain press I really like and am waiting to hear back from. This is a unique style of writing that I've been developing as far back as age seventeen. This first book of Spiralism is the mot important book I have yet to put together. So, that's what I'm mostly excited about concerning my own work. If this book is rejected, then I will be spending my days looking for other quality presses with the guts to try something new and publish it.

STO: What expectations do you have for your work during the rest of 2017 and into the years ahead?

HB: As I said, hopefully getting my first book of Spiralism published. That's my number one priority right now. Also, continuing to try new things and of course to keep Spiraling Out! Thank you for the interview, my friend. Selah!


Heath Brougher has published four books and his work has appeared in over 450 journals in 25 countries. Here are my thoughts on his books:

I had this to say about his debut, A Curmudgeon is Born, when I reviewed it:
This world is not what it seems. This universe is not what we thought. Heath Brougher asks/demands that humanity stop lying to itself about the nature of time and space. To break away from the shackles of eternally looping cycles, Brougher suggests aligning with the rhythms of an evolving spiral...so as to tap into the only essence of reality that matters in the end: Truth. Brougher's intensely deep debut collection is a dance through consciousness, language, music, and perception. Keep both eyes open. Keep all minds open. "A Curmudgeon Is Born" is a blast into the future.


His second book was a limited edition printing titled Digging for Fire and was actually a short 15-page precursor to his third book Your Noisy Eyes, both published by Stay Weird and Keep Writing Press. Your Noisy Eyes has a much more metaphysical approach to it than his debut. There are two running themes within the book, both on the philosophical side. One of the metaphysical themes is that there is a bomb buried deep within the Earth and a wick which has run in coils throughout human history, every day inching closer to the bomb itself, which humanity needs to find and extinguish before detonation. There is a sense of urgency to find the wick and smother it or else face absolute destruction. The bomb is symbolic of nonexistence and Brougher throws many questions at what this state just might be like. The other theme is less pronounced and concerns the eye as humanity's primary means of perception and survival. He ponders and throws questions galore upon this idea as well. He wonders just how much truth there is in what we see with our own eyes and whether or not we can actually trust what we see. His main concern, though, is not wanting to experience "an entire lifetime spent walking in the wrong direction."

His fourth,book, About Consciousness, was recently released from Alien Buddha Press and contains some very thought provoking poems alongside some amazing artwork by Red Focks. The very first poem of this book is concerned with God and just how "Inhumane" it seems to be. Heath then begins to give the reasons why he considers himself a Pantheist in the following poems. This book is poetry blended with philosophy dealing with consciousness itself as well as the various states of it which it can be experienced.


Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Scott serves as an editor for The Peregrine Muse and Novelmasters.

Heath Brougher's book are available on Amazon.com at https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_1_14?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=heath+brougher&sprefix=Heath+Brougher%2Caps%2C152&crid=EGVB03Q32CNC 

A Curmudgeon is Born (Yellow Chair Press) https://www.createspace.com/6281424

Digging for Fire (Stay Weird and Keep Writing Press) https://stayweirdandkeepwriting.wordpress.com/2016/10/23/heath-broughers-chapbook/comment-page-1/#comment-22
   
Your Noisy Eyes (Stay Weird and Keep Writing Press) https://stayweirdandkeepwriting.wordpress.com/2016/10/23/heath-broughers-chapbook/comment-page-1/#comment-22
   
About Consciousness (Alien Buddha Press) https://alienbuddhapress.com/titles

All of these books can be found at:    https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Heath+Brougher.

Setu, September 2017

The tipping point - short fiction

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

His distinctive features trumpeted his Assamese background openly and there were many like him working in that posh tastefully designed hotel in one of the central, affluent and middle class dominated areas in Chennai*. He was 22, looking always cheerful humming a song and moving about in that sprawling hall to serve his allotted share of guests in the evening.  Of course, he had a grueling routine, if one may call it so except for the three hour breaks allotted for them from morning till 10 p.m.  He would use it to hurry to his flat he shared with colleagues, chat and laugh and return for the evening stint with fresh infusion of energy.  Yeah… you needed a bit of “josh” to run the course.

Gurmukh Singh from Sualkuchi, a picturesque tourist spot on the banks of Brahmaputra, had a lot to feel nostalgic about.  Its extreme chill in winter or hot summer didn’t matter to him for his family of four – parents and a younger sister – lived in reasonable comfort in a bamboo laden house, walls covered with mud to make winter tolerable.  What he missed most was the crystalline river shining in the early morning rays or the chain of hills shimmering blue on the other side of the bank.   He had played around in the lanes with his mates one of whom worked with him in the hotel.  Why, they had been approached by the agency concerned whether they would like to go over to Chennai to work in a hotel chain that had its fair share of acclaim and paid well.  That of course is defined by the tolerable living standards of the day which is not in anybody’s control.  Well, they dithered, twiddled their thumbs and parents almost bit their nails off.  That was two years ago.

Gurmukh’s father was a skilled worker in a handloom unit at home earning enough to keep ends not burning or singed but a stage came when his son fell in the category of the not so bright.  His sister was a contrast and showed promises of bright days to come.  Gurmukh, a shy, easy going lad, was not given to regretting anything.  His mother was very fond of him and Gurmukh’s incapacity to go beyond pre-degree didn’t affect her in the least.  His father weighed with the idea that if worst came to the worst he could get him into his handloom unit.  Gurmukh felt otherwise.  He wanted to go places, learn a bit of diverse lingo, and he had the uncanny instinct for handling his money well.  And his handsome, smiling visage added a dash of bright colour to his cheek.  So while his parents examined their nails, he triumphed and had his way.  They had reason to because he was going into an unfamiliar, strange land where he must learn to find his way, remain safe.
***

At 7 p.m in the evening there was  change in shift routine and Sanjay Mishra, Gurmukh’s  close friend and room mate, was to hand over charge of his allotted row of tables to his friend.   It rarely happened that they came on the same routine or served the same allotted row.  “Yaar …..since afternoon I have had a lucky day….the stars are smiling at me,” confided Sanjay, a tall, lanky guy to his friend.  “I have made nearly 400 in tips since lunch time.  Thank God it is a big hotel where people queue up to come and eat.  Had we been caught at a dingy kind of hotel we would have been spitting venom.”

Gurmukh jabbed him in the ribs.  “Hope I am so lucky with only four hours left for the evening session.  That doesn’t matter yaar… because luck is an unpredictable, unfair friend.  There are days when we both have earned well and also days when we haven’t.  It doesn’t jar on me.”
They were standing in the corridor at the far end of the hall, with Sanjay readying to leave for home with a dinner package tucked in his arm while Gurmukh had his eye on the visitors.
“Did you have your grab at dinner?”  Sanjay asked him, rather solicitously.  “I have taken enough dosas and will keep something for you at night.”

Gurmukh nodded.  “Sure, if you can.  Our friends in the room wont be so generous…. you better ensure they don’t grab your share.”  Sanjay grinned.  Their four other room mates, who too worked at the hotel as door keepers or stewards, were also from other areas of Assam.  When birds of the same region flock together perhaps the spirit of oneness and fellow feeling permeates the room.

“Well… boy… I am on my way”  Sanjay raised his thumb to Gurmukh and left. Gurmukh wasn’t listening for his eye was already on the sixty plus old man, who looked lean, well dressed and athletic with a soft, smiling face.  Gurmukh had been seeing him for the past two years and wondered how his waistline was so slim despite advancing years while many others, far younger than him, had to squeeze themselves hard into the cushioned seat.  He would come only in the evening and showed consistent generosity with the same smile of which Gurmukh also had his share.
***

“Sir! It’s my turn to serve you today.  Want to have something different or the usual dosas, idlis or chola poori?”  Gurmukh grinned, opening the chat in his effusive, affable way and the old man instantly understood that he had come in at the time when the change in shift happened.  He also knew that this banter was a diplomatic ploy at which these waiters outdid one another.  He didn’t mind it nor the regular tips he gave them every day for in his heart he understood that it took all to make a living in this world.

He smiled.  “So Gurmukh… did you write home?  How are your parents?  Are you sending them money?”

“Yes sir…. I do every month though my dad is against it.  He tells me he doesn’t need my money and wants me to spend it on myself and stay healthy.”

The old man nodded, “He is right.  We have seen our lives and are close to taking care of ourselves.  You have to make yours still.”  He didn’t sound consciously philosophical which made Gurmukh like him all the more.  He was earthy when he said it.  “Any way get me your dosa special today. “ Gurmukh nodded, kept him a couple of glasses of cold water which he always demanded and went his way. 

Gurmukh did notice an eerie, absentminded air about the old man though the latter looked free of any problems that could lead to signs of torment, turmoil or disorientation in face.  “May be that’s his look” he thought.  In a few minutes dosa was on his table and the old man dug into it after flashing a smile of appreciation to Gurmukh for the instant delivery.

The old man loved the ambience, well regulated spreading of cool air from the ACs and kept looking here and there while gorging the stuff slowly.  Gurmukh got busy with the ambling clients within his border limits, checked with his immediate supervisor about the bills and cleared them at the counter.
He had taken no notice of the old man who tugged at his shirt sleeve for coffee.  Gurmukh nodded, smiled and rushed inside.  The old man took his time relishing the filter coffee and found the bill in a leather case as was the hotel’s practice.  He slipped a Rs.2000 note (for which change these days was far less a problem) and Gurmukh took it with him to the counter.  A couple of fellow stewards were already transacting the bills at the counter and Gurmukh got into a banter and bonhomie with them.  It took a few minutes when he returned to the table to find the old man … gone!

Instinctively he rushed out and found him ambling his way up a few paces in front. “Sir!  You have forgotten your change.” Gurmukh was slightly breathless because of the scare that he might not find him and recovered on spotting him.  Stunned and crestfallen the old man suddenly found himself in the wilderness for words.  Then he found his voice.  “Gurmukh!  How silly of me!  I just forgot”  He looked annoyed with himself and was visibly embarrassed.  Smiling sheepishly he said “Thanks so much for rushing behind me… ridiculous that I left a 2000 rupee note and was even more foolish not to have taken the balance.”

Gurmukh spoke soothingly.  “Never mind sir… it happens.  check the balance.”  The old man did and pressed a 500 rupee note in his hand.  Despite remonstrations from Gurmukh he insisted on him taking it. But Gurmukh held his ground. 

Back in the hotel the young waiter felt happy that he saved the old man a lot of embarrassment and pain on recollecting what he would have possibly lost.  He felt impelled to speak to Sanjay about it and the latter’s instinctive reaction left him stormed.  “You dumbo!  If you had taken the money would the old man ask for it tomorrow?  No… no… even if he does you would be serving different people tomorrow and could always pretend or act as if you didn’t know about it.  You should have been richer by Rs.2000 tonight.  No…don’t waste my time talking about it.” 

Gurmukh was not perturbed so much by the response as the fact that his friend had a convoluted view of the incident.  “God!  Whatever it may be, I don’t have to lay my finger on any dirty money… that’s not how I have grown.  Have I?” He might see the old man with the same smile the next day but the experience had already notched its footprint in his memory.  But he asked himself “which road will I take in future?  Was I right in doing what I did? ”

Ah!  That’s the tipping point Gurmukh!  Which will you choose – the long road enmeshed with bristles of the pain of honest, hard earned, peaceful life or the other of debauched deception, disturbed nights and desultory dawn?
***

*Chennai is a city in the southernmost tip of India.

Setu, September 2017

Book Review: A Trellis of Ecstasy by Lily Swarn

Name of the Book:                  A Trellis of Ecstasy

Genre:                                     Poetry

Author:                                    Lily Swarn

Publisher:                                Authorspress New Delhi India

Year of Publication:                2017

ISBN:                                      978-93-86722-45-4

Pp.:                                          235

Price:                                       ₹ 395.00  US$ 20.00

Reviewer:                                WaniNazir, Pulwama, J&K (India)

Dark clouds of miseries and deprivation cast in the sky of human life come always with some silver linings. People afflicted with dolour and grief often turn out as the most creative amongst their race. Or to say more precisely, angst has creative perks. Aristotle too echoed the same "that all men who have attained excellence in philosophy, in poetry, in art... even Socrates and Plato, had a melancholic habitus". This belief was versified by Milton in his poem, Il Penseroso:

Hail, divinest melancholy

Whose saintly visage is too bright

To hit the sense of human sight

The veneration of gloom was catapulted to its logical acme by Keats by asking, "Do you not see how necessary a World of Pains and trouble is to school of intelligence?”

“A Trellis of Ecstasy” by Lily Swarn, too, is an outpouring of a bruised soul rendered in shards by the strong buffets of pain and agony - the arrows and slings that racked the very being of the author deep down. But like Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, Dylan Thomas, the angst paid dividends by bodying forth poetry, the eternal lines, out of the creative womb of Lily Swarn the same way an oyster exudes a pearl out of sea-sediments after experiencing the harrowing travails. The plumes of pain in her case transmuted into 'soft rain' that 'drenched' the 'innards and a dam broke’:

A sigh sneaked out from my heart's rubble

And mingled with the monsoons

Tempest thrashed against jagged cliffs

And washed ashore the breakers.

(From Preface of the Book)

Lily Swarn, despite having scads of blanks, a horde of sorrows, wringing her very petite soul with paroxysms of grief and loss, strides along like a Titan:

Let me for once stand tall

Despite my diminutive stature

Allows me to stride like a Titan

(FROM THE HEARTS OF SOME WOMEN)

It is the creative encounter and engagement that comes handy to the author to hitch the wagon of her life from the quagmire of angst. She elsewhere says, "In the past five years, reading and writing alone saved me from going mad with grief". And “Trellis of Ecstasy”, a host of her brain children, proves to be an escape hatch for her to exterminate the brute of grief. She has employed poetry to see life in an all-encompassing vantage to embrace joy and sorrow and barter gratitude in lieu of the joyful moments and innumerable bounties life brings along with itself. As she writes in one of her poems, ‘Forgive Me’ I read on the Facebook timeline of the author:

Forgive me

Forgive me if I say

Life is such a precious gift

When the spotted sparrow

Nuzzles her tender fledgling

In the precarious toxic fumes.

The book, adorned with 140 poems, is divided into seven sections: The Prize Winning Poems, Conversation with my Soul, Nature Poetry, Love, Spontaneous Ponderings, Portraits, and Alliterations. Variegated themes have been put across through the poems the book contains.

           

The poem, 'My Story' being the semblance of the same titled autobiography by Kamala Das, the cry and anguish of the poetess is blatantly heard, the same quarry of pain and anguish experienced by the invisible piercing bullets patriarchy aims at women as vociferated by Kamala Das, Gayatri Spivak, and the ilk. The echoes of the lines from Kamala Das’s poem, ‘Introduction’:

With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours

reverberate so vehemently in the poem:

I write about a lump of clay

That pretends to be something more

……………………………………………………….

This squeamish terror stricken

Wide eyed lost soul

Scoffing at its own limitations

And fist fighting its dejections

Blundering into arenas

Never trodden before in tight jeans

The expression ‘the lump of clay’ connotes the ephemeral nature of flesh. The chic and pomp of earthly life is targeted. The poetess metaphorically by the device of Swiftan irony lashes out at the human pride and haughtiness.

The poet succeeds in evolving and establishing Gothic mise en scene in the poem ‘Amavasya’.  We discern how the poet, as if accompanying, hand in hand, Horace Walpole or Clara Reeve, has struck a morbid note of murkiness when she says:

It was dark

As dark as Amavasya

No moon night hurling stones

Men are considered as supreme and this is what the poetess ironically paints with an artistic brush.

How easy it is to be misled into believing

That men are god’s gift to mankind

The women as the poet exposes their wounds in raw are the instrument like the strings of a guitar:

…like women

Perfectly sculpted puppets dangling on strings

In 'Smothered in the Cul De Sac', the poetess has made allusions to the Romantic tragedies of Shakespeare and Robert Greene:

The confetti of loves

Lost in Time’s cruel twisted

Lanes in Delhi’s ancient walled city

The poem makes abundant use of the device of imagery. The odyssey of love has been curtailed revealing the pessimistic and hapless approach of the poet:

The road stopped here

There was no beyond

The showers of blossoms

Went to their graves

In the poem 'Frost’ the poet has deplored the obstacles that an artist is beset with while making art very artful. The poet weeps over the impediments faced by an artist in bringing about certain reformation. The poet complains:

Icy fingers of indifference

The silence between two humans

A frosty shuddering gloom

The image of frost has been used the way Coleridge has used it in ‘Frost at Midnight’, a symbol of a frozen world where the subject matter of poetry remains static, the way it has been used as a symbol of obstacle in Joseph Conrad’s "Heart of Darkness”. The unfathomed silence and chill has plummeted down all the sinews of the poet that has left her in eerie petrification:

Buds shriveled before blooming

Under the frost of wintry burning

Droplets of rain on your window pane

But the poet does not shun the hope for a miracle in the midst of this frozen voyage of life as she is:

Waiting for the whip of spring 

To thaw my frost bitten heart

The note of this optimism is as powerful as Shelley strikes in his ‘Ode to the West Wind’

If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

In 'She', the women is treated with tenderness and devoid of any irony. The poem has enormous overtones of Mary Leaper’s ‘An Essay on Woman’:

Woman a pleasing but a short-lived flower

Too soft for business and too weak for power

A wife in bondage or neglected maid

In the poem, the essential goodness of a woman’s heart is brought to the surface. She has been called a clown by the poet only to expose that her credulity is suffering an undue advantage:

While trying out her Mama's high heels and lipstick like a clown

She is her own woman soon

Who will not bow to patronizing male superiority

The poem has the theme of gender role and how a woman is treated as the denizen of the third world, a subaltern, as stated by Gayatri Spivak in her influential essay, 'Can a Subaltern Speak?’

In 'I Died’, we see the poet targeting the pomp of human pride as something like a fist of sand, something ephemeral, the sunlight as if falling on morning mist, how the sliver coloring of the ferny floor hastes away soon,  and how our life on the planet is terribly evanescent:

I froze like

A moth on ice

Did you see the filtered 

Shades of sunlight

Bathing my aura?

Coming to the experimentation of forms and styles, the book has ‘a god’s plenty’. There are Free Verses, Tankas, Alliterative poems, Palindromes, Mesostic poems, Limericks, Roseate Sonnets, Tidlings that embellish the book to the nth degree, and is an attestation of the author’s prowess of making the forms her pen’s slave. Her foray into the realm of pain and annexation with the territory of despair makes her style and language take on a new timbre that rivets the reader’s attention and emotions to the verses so much so that the reader falls victim to ‘the alienation effect’ to use Bertolt Brecht’s phrase.

Let’s hope more literary creations from Lily Swarn in future.

Setu, September 2017